


play that funky music

by jediseagull



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Modern Era, band!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-19 23:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2406818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jediseagull/pseuds/jediseagull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Athos trained at Juilliard, Porthos never met a drum kit he couldn't improve, and if Aramis could stop singing love songs to married women it would make all their lives a lot easier. Also, they have a band.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The inevitable band AU. Also my first foray back into writing fic after a dry spell of seven years. I'm just as surprised as anyone about this, but what the hell, here goes. Unbeta'd, so comments and critiques on everything from grammar to plot and characterization are very much welcome!

He was going to kill Aramis.

Sure, some people might say that murdering your lead singer was, generally speaking, a bad idea, especially three weeks before Bumbershoot.

Those same people, when pressed, might also say that it was a bad idea for a band’s only guitarist to break his fucking arm _three weeks before the biggest show of their lives_.

Porthos might complain a bit, Athos thought darkly. He was fond of Aramis, and he’d had to do most of the work in getting their charming friend away from the latest in a long line of angry husbands. But Athos was relatively certain their drummer could be convinced. Bumbershoot was supposed to be their big break, a chance to play their own music for hundreds of people. They weren’t going to be on the main stage, but they were still going to be _on stage_ , and at a major arts festival to boot. Or they would have been. Not without a guitarist, though.

Groaning quietly, Athos thumped his head back against the waiting room wall. Porthos was in with Aramis now, getting the prescription for painkillers from the doctor because Aramis was at the moment too drugged to recognize his own reflection. Athos, meanwhile, was stuck staring at the stack of outdated magazines and beaten-up toys that seemed to be a universal requirement of doctor’s offices. Across the room, a massive corkboard advertised everything from testicular self-exams to CPR classes.

Maybe Tréville could help. The older man was the first one who’d given The Inseparables a chance, after all, letting them use the back room of his music store to practice when they were just starting out. He was still their de facto manager, and he knew enough people in the musical community that he might be able to find them a substitute guitar player. Who could learn their entire repertoire in three weeks. And didn’t mind getting paid in takeout.

Athos banged his head against the wall again. Fucking Aramis.

He knew, in theory, that it wasn’t even really the other man’s fault. Women loved him. Hell, men loved him. Small children and stray cats loved Aramis. He was inherently charismatic, and the single-minded passion that made him such a good frontman also made him a very appealing lover. The only problem was that sometimes, he didn’t think to check for a ring first. As with today. A particularly vitriolic older gentleman had caught Aramis _in flagrante delicto_ with his young and unsatisfied wife, and gone for his equally ancient revolver while Aramis was still trying to escape through the window. The shot had missed, but it had startled Aramis enough that he toppled from the second story, landed badly, and broke his arm. Porthos, who knew his friend well enough to be waiting outside, had had to half carry him to a taxi, and he’d called Athos en route to the hospital. Athos paused in his methodical attempts to give himself a concussion as the external doors whooshed open, and a young mother hurried her toddler up to the nurse’s desk. The boy couldn’t have been more than three, and he stared back at Athos with one finger wedged determinedly into his nose, snot smearing from the other nostril.

God, he needed a drink. Porthos had said he didn’t want to try to manage a cab once Aramis was loopy on painkillers, and Porthos, at least, had done nothing to deserve this. But the unfortunate necessity of playing chauffeur meant that the bottle of wine back in his apartment meant to be a Saturday afternoon treat was still untouched, and Athos couldn’t do a damn thing about the headache that was slowly pounding away at his skull. Or maybe that was the wall. Athos watched in vaguely detached disgust as the kid slowly withdrew one boogery finger to place it in his mouth, and wished desperately that Porthos and Aramis would hurry up.

Finally, finally, the internal doors slid open to reveal his bandmates. Porthos, massive and steady, had one of Aramis’ arms draped over his shoulder. The other was clad in a bright pink cast. Athos quirked one eyebrow at his tall friend.

“He insisted,” Porthos shrugged. “He keeps saying-“

“I’m a unicorn and you can’t stop me,” Aramis said, pawing at Porthos’ hair with his uninjured hand. "Neigh!" Then he whinnied enthusiastically.

“Yeah, that. Come on, let’s get him home.” Together, they shuffled Aramis outside and to Athos’ waiting car.

Home for Aramis was a two-bedroom flat in the university district, which he shared with Porthos and an ever-changing succession of nightly guests. They’d offered to find a bigger place a couple of times, let Athos move in with them, but he always refused. His studio might have been small, but it was soundproofed, and if he wanted to stay up until 6 AM composing or drinking or both, he’d trouble nobody but himself. Today, though, he felt he had to make the offer. “I can stay with him tonight,” he said to Porthos as they settled Aramis into his pillow-strewn bed. “Sleep on the floor in case he wakes up and needs something.” Porthos smiled cheerfully and shrugged massive shoulders in dismissal.  
  
“Nah, I’ve got a research paper coming due. I’ll be up all night anyways working on that, might as well be doin’ it in here.” Athos winced in sympathy and, brushing one hand through Aramis’ curls in farewell, fled to go find Tréville.

\---------------------------------------- 

Tréville, naturally, was less than pleased to hear the news. Neither was he particularly surprised. “One month,” he muttered. “All we needed was one month without anyone getting into a fight over women-” That was Aramis. “Or bar music-” In his defense, they’d been playing some godawful Toby Keith song. “Or, heaven help me, neurological development in homeless children.” And that would be Porthos, who admittedly got a bit…vehement about his Master’s thesis in social work. “One month, and you boys manage to let your guitarist break his arm.”

“Can you find us a replacement?”

Tréville sighed. “Possibly. Constance was saying something about bringing in a kid from UW to help work the register, maybe teach some classes on the side. He’s renting the top floor of her house, sounds like he’s pretty desperate for work.”

Athos dropped his gaze to his hands, twisted in his lap. “We can’t pay him.”

“Did I not just say he’s a college student? You could probably toss him a burger every now and then and he’d be happy doing it, just to say he played at Bumbershoot and get a few free meals out of it.” His smile twisted into a grimace. “If he’s good enough, that is. Three weeks is not much time, and I know you wanted to include that new piece with the fancy extended solo.”

“We can cut it, if we have to.” Athos raised his head, meeting Tréville’s unhappy gaze. “Better to play a solid set of old songs than to not play at all. What’s his name?”

\----------------------------------------

“Charles,” said the young man, sticking his hand out awkwardly. “But everyone calls me D’Artagnan.”

“Right,” said Porthos, after a moment of silence. “Well, d’Artagnan, why don’t we give you a few minutes to tune up and we’ll give that first piece a shot? You had a chance to look over the sheet music we sent you, yeah?” Aramis had a shift scheduled at the daycare, but he’d insisted that they audition his substitute on his favorite song, because, as he said, “If we don't play that at the festival I may actually cry.” He was joking, probably. But since he’d had to miss the audition, they’d let him have his way.

D’Artagnan – God, Athos thought, what a mouthful of a name – nodded happily. “Yeah, yeah, it was great! I really loved the bit with the-” He mimed playing a couple of chords.

“Tuning?” Athos asked drily.  
  
“Oh! Sorry, give me just a second.” Tréville had been right, he was eager. Of course, how many kids dreamt of being rock stars? Passion didn’t mean anything without the talent and the work to back it up.

Only – as it turned out, d’Artagnan was _good_. Not as good as Aramis, perhaps, but he had an open, quick style to his playing, none of the nervy energy from before making its way through to the notes. They hit the bridge with the rolling feeling of the tide coming in, and Athos dropped his hands from the neck of the bass he’d been playing to grab for his violin. He wouldn't normally switch instruments during an audition – they were meant to be evaluating d’Artagnan, not actually performing – but this was the sweet spot all musicians talked about, and he wasn’t going to waste it.

The violin sung out, and he saw d’Artagnan’s twitch of surprise to his left, but the kid rolled with it beautifully, letting his guitar go sweet and low as Athos played. Porthos, fiddling around with some sort of bizarre vertical xylophone in the back, gave them only the occasional soft fall of chimes until Athos began to play faster, and faster still, and d’Artagnan followed him without hesitation until Porthos kicked back in with a rollicking beat.

At the end of the song, Athos closed his eyes just to savor the last fading notes. That had been good. Better than he’d hoped for, certainly miles beyond what he’d actually expected. D’Artagnan had made a few technical errors, but Aramis could help him correct those easily enough. The technical part was easy. You couldn’t teach someone how to fit in with a band, how to read each other until music came as easily as conversation. But D’Artagnan already seemed to know their answer from their faces, looking between Athos and Porthos with a smile that grew into a dazzling grin, until he couldn’t contain himself and whooped, throwing gangling limbs into the air. Porthos laughed, and Athos felt one corner of his mouth tug upwards in response.

He would have to text Aramis – they were going to need to schedule a lot of practices if they wanted to play their new song at Bumbershoot.


	2. Chapter 2

“So,” said d’Artagnan. “Violin, huh?”

Athos hitched his shoulders minutely and kept putting his instruments away.

“Anything else I should know about?” d’Artagnan persisted, a touch of mischief sparking in his eyes. “Flute? Banjo? Kazoo?”

“Porthos beatboxes,” Athos offered. D’Artagnan squinted at him.

“Really?”

“And I juggle,” said Porthos, coming over to clap one hand on Athos’ shoulders and another on d’Artagnan’s. “I am, as they say, a man of many talents.”

D’Artagnan snickered and turned around to put his own guitar away before stopping dead in his tracks. The back of his neck flushed a slow and violent pink.

Constance was leaning against the far wall, watching them all with a fond expression on her face. “You boys done in here?”

Athos nodded at her, both in greeting and in answer. He’d liked Constance ever since Tréville hired her three years back. She had a wicked way with accounts and inventory, and when she’d bought the Inseparables their own coffee machine for the back room that first Christmas, she’d won their undying affection.

As she had apparently won d’Artagnan’s. The young man, now blushing furiously, put his hands out in a sheepish _ta-da!_ gesture. “What did you think?”

Constance smiled at him. “It was fantastic. You’ve got a good ear.” D’Artagnan, impossibly, went even redder.

“Ah, to be young again,” Porthos drawled quietly from beside Athos, bumping their shoulders together companionably. Athos shuddered.

“I’ve had enough of falling over myself every time a pretty girl smiles at me.” One girl in particular, but Porthos didn’t need to know that.

“Come on, it’s cute! Like a puppy. Aramis is going to love this kid.” Porthos chortled quietly to himself, picturing the two meeting.

“Stop that, you’ll scare him off.”

“Won’t. Besides, if he’s going to be hanging around for the next three weeks, he’ll see a lot worse than that. Remember the Domino’s Incident?”

“I try not to.”

“Oh, Athos,” Porthos tutted. “Don’t worry so much! We’re gonna be awesome.” 

\----------------------------------------

Recalling that conversation three days later, Athos couldn't help but think that they were famous last words.

As Porthos had predicted, Aramis had taken to d’Artagnan immediately. He was, after all, a teacher both by nature and profession. Constance, poking her head in to tell them she was locking up, had let out a soft ‘awwww’ at the sight of two heads bent over a single guitar, Aramis explaining subtle changes in grip and fingering that would help the younger man play more cleanly. Athos was not inclined to ‘awwww’-ing, but there was a warmth in his chest that couldn’t be attributed to the carton of pad see ew he’d just demolished.

Unfortunately, practice had devolved rather rapidly upon the arrival of Porthos, coming late from a meeting with his academic advisor. The bigger man looked pinched around the eyes when he walked through the door, and he moved with a tense stiffness that was worrying. For someone who was normally so easy in his own skin, Porthos had an awful tendency to lock up when he was upset or unsure.

“Back rubs are in order, I think,” Aramis had declared. “Lie down.”

“But-”

“ _Back rubs._ Or do you want him to hurt himself by trying to play when his muscles are all knots like this?”

Even the idea of another injury made Athos feel like throwing up, so he’d let the other two maneuver a quiet Porthos onto the floor, face pillowed in d’Artagnan’s Washington sweatshirt.  Somehow between then and now d’Artagnan had gone from tentatively pressing aching muscles back into alignment under Aramis’ instruction to being chased around by a shirtless Porthos, all three of them shouting with laughter. From the sound of the threats Porthos was bellowing, _someone_ had clearly told d’Artagnan that he was ticklish.

One of these days he really was going to murder Aramis. No one would ever find the body.

“Gentlemen. Can we please get back to work?” It wasn’t much of an attempt, and the roughhousing continued as though he’d never spoken. But honestly, less than three weeks and this was how they were going to spend precious practice time? He took a deep breath, getting ready to try again.

“OI. SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP.” Athos jerked around. He hadn’t even realized Tréville was still in the building, but the man was waving a sheaf of papers around with a furious expression, so he must have been working on paperwork in his office. Tréville’s scowl said that they’d better let him get back to said paperwork as soon as possible. Or else.

“You,” he growled, poking a finger at Porthos and d’Artagnan, “Should not be encouraging _him_ ,” and here the accusatory finger now moved to indicate Aramis, “To run around like a lunatic until he breaks the other arm!” Aramis put on his best _who-me_ face, but Tréville was unmoved. “And as for you…”

“I didn’t do anything,” Athos protested.

“Exactly. I am not your goddamned nanny. Keep your bandmates under control or so help me I will call a noise complaint on my own building.” Tréville shot them all one last glare before storming off again just as quickly as he’d come.

“Well, you heard the man!” Aramis grinned at them, his good mood irrepressible even in the face of a scolding. “Command us, oh fearless leader.”

Athos scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Don’t call me that. Let’s start with _Ley Lines_ and go from there.”

Months ago, as part of the application process to the festival, he’d had to submit a brief bio for The Inseparables. He’d promptly pawned the job off on Aramis, assuming that if the man could write lyrics, he could write something that made them sound interesting enough to catch the attention of the selection committee and audiences alike. Aramis had not disappointed, and the organizers had ultimately used most of what he’d originally drafted for their official band biography.

_Based right here in Seattle, The Inseparables specialize in taking the classic elements of European folk rock and giving them a punchy, modern twist. Over the past five years they’ve hit upon the perfect balance of haunting ballads and frenetic rock anthems in their live sets – and the on-stage chemistry between the members certainly doesn’t hurt their popularity either._

_Ley Lines_ was one of the aforementioned ‘haunting ballads’, and while Porthos had been concerned it was too mellow for a show on the scale of Bumbershoot, the other two had overruled him. If audiences were expecting ballads, then they needed to play at least one, and _Ley Lines_ was always well received when they’d played it at other gigs. They wouldn’t start with it on the day, but it was a good warm-up piece, and as Porthos counted them in he could feel the energy of the room settling, the other men focusing their attention at long last.

It wasn’t bad, per se, but neither was it as good as d’Artagnan’s audition. Whatever had been troubling Porthos earlier had not been entirely eliminated by his friends’ efforts to cheer him, and the momentum normally provided by his steady percussion was less driving than usual. It didn’t matter so much during the slower _Ley Lines_ , but as they transitioned into _Treaty_ d’Artagnan began to overcorrect, wanting to play faster as Porthos dragged behind.

Seeing the frustration on d’Artagnan’s face as they finished the song, Athos called for a halt.

“Grab some water. Then we’ll take this one again, it was sloppy.” He pulled the younger man aside.

“I know, I was rushing.” D’Artagnan let the breath whoosh out of him in annoyance. “It just doesn’t-”

“It doesn’t feel like the right tempo because it isn’t,” Athos interrupted. “And that’s fine, in practice. It’s something you should feel free to mention to the group, and we’ll work on it. But on stage, during a performance? You need to be able to correct to match everyone else, even if everyone else is wrong. Understand?” D’Artagnan pursed his lips, but he nodded acknowledgement. “For tonight, just work on that. I’ll speak to Porthos later.”

But Porthos refused to be spoken to. Before Athos could catch his eye at the end of practice he was already wrapping his headphones around his ears and calling out goodbyes as he walked out the door.

Helplessly, he looked at Aramis instead. Aramis shook his head, his expression just as lost as Athos felt. “He wasn’t acting odd earlier. Maybe something with his advisor?”

And that narrowed the list of potential problems down not at all, Athos thought wearily. Between tenuous grant funding, a heavy class schedule, and the looming deadline of his thesis, Porthos was always dealing with some issue or another at school. But Aramis seemed to be waiting for a reply. “Can you speak to him? Tomorrow, if you get the chance.”

“Yeah.” Aramis picked at the edges of his cast.

“He’ll be fine.”  
  
“I know.” And if not, they would do whatever was necessary to fix it.

“Hey, um.” Aramis twitched as d’Artagnan came up behind him. They’d both temporarily forgotten about their newest addition. “I hate to ask, but could either of you guys give me a ride back to Constance’s? I don’t think the buses are running.”

Aramis laughed, and if they hadn’t known each other for so long Athos wouldn’t have even known that it was forced. “Yeah, kid, I can. Come on. We’ll see you Wednesday afternoon, yeah, Athos?”

“I’ll be here.”

As Aramis herded d’Artagnan out the door, he heard his friend stage whisper, “Of course he will. Sometimes I don’t think he ever _leaves_.”

Athos considered briefly whether it would be worth driving home just to prove the other man wrong. But his studio was quiet and lonely when he wasn’t filling it with music, and the bottle of red in his fridge promised easy sleep only at the cost of a massive hangover during his 9 o’clock violin lesson. So in the end he lay down among the drums and guitars and microphones, wrapped one hand around the wood of his bow, and fell into a restless, dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm a horrible human being and I apologize for the suffering I'm inflicting on these poor characters, as well as for ending the chapter where I did. This escalated a lot faster than I'd planned, so warnings for brief mentions of self-induced vomiting and assault (non-graphic).

Athos’ 9 AM lesson, the Halloways, were the sort of parents who forced their seven year old into learning an instrument she hated for the sake of her future college application. They were also the sort of parents who were willing to pay _very_ well for the privilege of having those lessons taught by a Juilliard alum. Athos didn’t exactly like to advertise the years he spent in New York, but a few casual words from Tréville and the Halloways wouldn’t have anyone else for Julia. She was a sweet kid, if sullenly reluctant about the violin, and they had an unspoken agreement that Athos would let her learn one pop arrangement for every classical piece her parents insisted upon. Unorthodox, perhaps, but it worked for the two of them very nicely.

Though it was, he reflected, a good thing that Julia’s nanny had been the one to bring her to the studio today. At the moment, scruffy-faced and wearing yesterday’s clothes, he didn’t look much like the stereotypical Juilliard graduate. What he really ought to do was go back to his apartment and take a long hot shower, and then he had some calls to make about getting d’Artagnan a last-minute performer’s pass, but he’d have to be quick if he wanted to avoid –

“Athos!”  
  
Shit. He resisted the urge to flee out the front door after the Halloways’ SUV, and turned around. Constance was bearing down on him, brandishing a Tupperware container with such force that he was surprised it didn’t go flying out of her hand.

“I don’t want to hear a word out of you; I know you haven’t eaten anything today. And no, coffee doesn’t count.” She hooked her free arm around one of his and began dragging him towards the register counter. He sat obediently on the stool, took the spoon she handed him, and sniffed cautiously at the container as she pried the lid off. “It’s chili. I know it’s hot out today, but it was this or veggie burgers in the fridge.” She laughed at Athos’ expression. “And see, aren’t I such a considerate friend by choosing to bring you chili instead?”

“The picture of thoughtfulness,” he assured her. Sizing up the chili bowl, he repressed a groan. She was only worried about him, but her idea of a standard portion was obscene. Even Porthos would have a hard time finishing this much food, but Constance, dropping herself onto the second stool, was clearly going to supervise every last bite.

Out of options, Athos stared glumly down into the steaming container and lifted the first spoonful to his lips. _One down, a couple hundred to go_.

\----------------------------------------

Trying to manage a shower seemed like a bad idea when he was so full he could barely walk, so Athos skipped straight to the next item on his to-do list: politely shouting down the rather hapless Bumbershoot organizer who refused to put d’Artagnan’s name on the performer’s list.

“For the last time, our frontman broke his arm. There is absolutely no way he can play, and that means if d’Artagnan can’t get backstage, we can’t go on. He needs a pass, preferably by today.” He knuckled his hand across his eyes. Despite being among the festival’s upper management, Louis couldn’t seem to get anything done without calling on the full organizational committee to debate it back and forth. This close to the weekend itself, there was no way they’d have time to convene just for one minor band’s backup member, and as for Louis himself…

Through the phone, Louis hemmed and hawed for a moment. “That’s rather impossible, I’m afraid. We’d need his photo ID and full set of waivers just to handle the security risk…darling!”

Athos looked incredulously at his phone until Louis continued, “Here, speak to my wife. She handles all of the messy paperwork business anyways, and thank goodness for that, I tell you.” There was a rustle, and then a woman’s voice, soft and firm, came over the line.  
  
“Mr. Athos, isn’t it? I’m Anna Navarre, I heard your audition tape, very neat work on the harmonies for _Three Riders_. Now, we can expedite the actual process on our end, but we’d still need Mr. d’Artagnan’s information from you as soon as possible. Let me give you our fax number, and if you can send someone over to our offices to pick up the badge we can have it ready as soon as-” She paused, rustling some papers. “Let’s say by next Monday.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Athos said fervently. “We’ll send someone over – it’s alright if it’s not d’Artagnan? I don’t know his schedule off the top of my head, he might be busy.”  
  
“That’s perfectly fine. Just make sure whoever it is brings their own ID so we can confirm they’re part of your group.”

She rattled off the office fax number with the same quiet efficiency, and Athos thanked her again with the utmost sincerity before hanging up. The brief flare of frustration he’d felt speaking to Louis notwithstanding, Anna was clearly competent, and he felt relatively confident in trusting that she’d deal with the matter as promised. One less thing for him to worry about, then, and a good enough reason to celebrate with the wine he’d denied himself yesterday. 

He was halfway through his second bottle when his cell trilled the opening bars of the Toreador Song. Aramis, then, but at some point Athos had migrated from his kitchen table to the floor, and the phone was out of reach on the countertop above. If it was important, Aramis would leave a message.

Then the phone rang again. By the third repetition of the brassy tune, Athos was heaving himself to his feet. He swayed forward, caught the edge of the counter with one hand and his phone with the other, and tapped the green icon to accept the call. 

“What.”

“Shit, Athos, it’s two in the afternoon and I really need you to be sober right now.”

Hearing the barely-controlled panic in Aramis’ voice, Athos spun on his heel, wobbled, and then made his shaky way towards the bathroom. Anxiety and nausea roiled together in his gut. “What’s wrong?”

“Porthos. It’s – well, it’s complicated is what it is, but also private, and I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. Can you call a cab? Or ask Constance, or Tréville if you have to.”  
  
“Aramis, I’m not. I’m not good company right now.”  
  
“ _Please_.”  
  
What could he say to that? He’d have to be dead or unconscious, not just well on his way to wasted, before he ignored a plea for help from his friends. “I’ll…I’ll be there in twenty, half an hour max.”

“Okay. Thanks.” The call clicked off.

Constance might be free to drive him, but then he’d have to deal with her disapproving looks the whole way over – and possibly for the next several days, since she could hold a bit of a grudge. Better to call a cab.

But first, he had to sober up. The contents of his already-churning stomach came up without much prompting, and he scrubbed his mouth out with a finger dipped in toothpaste before ducking his head under the tap. He still felt like hell, of course, even if the shock of the cold water had startled him into momentary alertness. He took a quick peek in the mirror; judging by his reflection, he looked as awful as he felt. Sweaty and stinking of wine, vomit, and mint toothpaste was not exactly ‘sober’, but if he was going to make the thirty-minute deadline he’d promised Aramis, it was the best he was going to get.

\----------------------------------------

The cab deposited him in front of his friends’ apartment, and Athos thrust a fifty at the driver. “Keep it.” Even before the taxi had pulled away from the curb, the front door buzzer was sounding, and he strode over and wrenched the door open. Aramis was waiting at the top of the stairs for him, his face pale and miserable.

“He’s – really upset. He didn’t want me to stay.”  
  
“Too bad. Open the door.”  
  
Aramis caught his arm before he could step onto the landing. “Athos, no. I’ve never seen him like this before.”  
  
Athos glared back. “Fine. If you’re not going to let me talk to him, then you better tell me what the hell is going on, _private_ or not.” Aramis looked even more anguished. “Aramis, so help me, I’ll leave.” He wouldn’t, they both knew that, but it was enough to make the other man crumble.

“Someone at the shelter accused him of assaulting a kid. One of his clients. He’s suspended pending an investigation.”

It was as though he’d stepped onto ice, thinking it was solid, and suddenly had it crack beneath him. Athos felt numb all over, distantly aware of Aramis’ clenched grip around his bicep, the ragged sound of his own breathing. No, not Porthos. Never Porthos.

Porthos, who was generous and cheerful and good. Even the most sullen of wayward teenagers was inevitably charmed by his foul mouth and his unshakeable belief that they could be more than what their circumstances had made of them. Porthos, charged with assault? It would ruin his career, the dream he’d nearly killed himself trying to accomplish.  
  
“Athos. Fuck, come on. _Athos_. We gotta do something, we don’t have time for you to go all headspace-y.”

Aramis was right. They had to do something. If it went to trial, even if there was never a conviction, Porthos’ future as a social worker was over.

“Did they get video?”

“What?”

“Video. Of the supposed – incident.” Aramis shook his head, curls flying wildly about his face.  
  
“No, one of the other staff members said she saw Porthos and the kid in the alley next to the shelter as she was leaving work. It wasn’t in one of the counseling rooms, so no cameras.”

“You should stay with him.” He held up a hand to forestall any protests. “I know he kicked you out, but I don’t think he should be left alone. I’ll start making some calls, see about getting a lawyer. Tell me if – tell me if anything changes.” 

\----------------------------------------

The next 24 hours were a blur. At some point Athos knew he must have taken a break to piss and eat, but when he wasn’t calling law firms he was combing through every non-profit he could find, trying to find one willing to cover the all legal fees Porthos couldn’t afford on a student budget.

His head had been pounding for some time, and so it took him a few seconds to realize that the noise he could hear was not, in fact, his headache getting worse. It was the door, and behind it, improbably, d’Artagnan. The boy seemed generally unimpressed with the paper-strewn squalor of Athos’ studio. Or perhaps with Athos himself.

“You know, I’m thrilled to be performing with you guys, but next time you cancel a practice at the last minute, a little warning would be nice.” Practice. They'd had a practice scheduled for that afternoon, but it had completely slipped his mind after his conversation with Aramis. D’Artagnan leaned against the threshold, arms crossed over his chest. “I mean, you all just fell off the grid. Didn’t any of you get my calls?”

“We’ve been busy.”  
  
“I can see that. So, when’s the next practice, then?”

“D’Artagnan…” How he wished Aramis were here to do the talking. But d’Artagnan deserved to know, if not the full truth then at least the relevant parts. “We’re going to have to postpone it indefinitely.”  
  
“With the show in two weeks? Are you _crazy_?”

“Porthos is having a personal issue, and he needs time to deal with it.”  
  
D’Artagnan looked thoughtfully at Athos. “A legal personal issue?” He held up a hand apologetically. “I know it’s not any of my business, but there’s a legal codebook on your coffee table, and you never mentioned studying law.”

“You’re right. It isn’t any of your business.”

He should have been kinder. But he was exhausted and horribly, pathetically terrified, and he did not have it in him to be kind. Most people would have flinched away at the icy words. Perhaps they would have muttered an apology before fleeing.

D’Artagnan drew himself up to his full height and said, very quietly, “Porthos is my friend too, you know. I may not have known him for years and years yet, but if he’s in trouble I want to help.”

If he wasn’t at the end of his rope, Athos would have been touched by the young man’s immediate loyalty. As it was, they were running out of time and options. He made his decision. “One of the staff at his internship said she saw him assaulting a client outside. It’s her word against Porthos’ – the teenager in question is homeless, and they don’t have a way to track him down. If it goes to court, he could go to jail. Even if he doesn’t, once it’s in court it’s a matter of public record. He’d never find work, not with any halfway decent agency. So unless you know a _very_ good lawy— what?”

D’Artagnan was shaking his head, a tentative smile blooming across his face. “I don’t know a lawyer, but I know someone who might be able help. Well, Constance does, really. This woman, she’s a detective, I guess, but she does a lot of work for women’s shelters and the like during her time off. She helped one of Constance’s cousins get away from an abusive boyfriend, found a whole bunch of proof that the guy was dealing and got him locked up. Maybe she could prove Porthos didn’t hurt that kid.” 

Athos tried to quash the faint stirrings of hope. It was a long shot, but then, so were they. And they’d made it this far.

“Anything’s worth a try at this point. What’s her name?”

“Ninon,” d’Artagnan said, already pulling out his phone and dialing Constance. “De Larroque.”


	4. Chapter 4

Detective De Larroque (“Call me Ninon.”) was a tall, fierce-faced blonde woman with a glint of steel in her eyes. Constance had been a bit skeptical about giving d’Artagnan her number, at first.

“She’s a bit….well, she’s a bit much for you, isn’t she?” As d’Artagnan sputtered in outrage, Constance went on. “I mean, you’re lovely. Ninon’s just a lot to handle, sometimes. She has a very forceful personality, and you have to be quite tough to stand up to her.”  
  
“I can be tough!”  
  
“And sweetheart, I hate to say it but I don’t think you’re really her type. She goes more for the dark and brooding sort. Like Athos, you know.” Athos hadn’t realized it was possible to choke on air, but he was managing it just fine at that moment.

“Yes, but Constance –”

“Anyways, were you able to track down the boys? Tréville hasn’t said anything, but I can tell he’s getting worried too.”  
  
“That’s why I’m calling,” d’Artagnan huffed. “Nobody’s in the hospital, so you can tell Tréville to calm down.”  
  
“I think he’s rather more concerned about them being in jail than the hospital. Porthos has a remarkable quality to finish fights just as quickly as he starts them.”

D’Artagnan winced. “Look, about Porthos.” Athos shot him a sharp look. They had agreed to keep the details from Constance, not wanting to unnecessarily make her anxious. “He’s, um. He’s a bit under the weather ‘cause one of his kids has gone missing. We were hoping Ninon could help.”

“Oh. Oh, dear. Yes, I’m sure she’d be happy to. Just a moment, I’ll text her contact info over to you right now. Tell Porthos I’m keeping my fingers crossed for him.”  
  
“Will do. Thanks, Constance, you’re a life saver.”

\----------------------------------------

Later that day, staring at the fierce woman in front of them, d’Artagnan looked like he might be reconsidering if Ninon was “a bit much” for him after all. Athos couldn’t blame the boy. The detective wasn’t carrying a sidearm, or even her badge. But she stood with an easy confidence that said, _Go on, try it_. _See how far you get_. It didn’t matter that they outweighed and outnumbered her. Ninon looked at them like she could leave them flat on the pavement without breaking a sweat, and also like she was more and more tempted to do just that.

“Let me get this straight. You want me to find this kid – Alex, you said? – so you can drag him in front of a group of adults who have the power to deny him the basic necessities of food and shelter, and then let them try and interrogate him into dropping charges against your friend?”  
  
“No,” Athos growled. “He didn’t make the accusation in the first place, it was a third person, we just want Alex to confirm –”

Ninon spoke right over him, her voice colder than ever. “Perhaps you misunderstood what it is I do. I _stop_ abusers, I don’t bring their victims right back to them.”

Athos had been so patient, listening for hours to all the reasons why the city’s law firms couldn’t possibly represent Porthos, why his case was already a lost cause. At Ninon’s dismissal, he felt the last tenuous strands of calm snap like branches in a storm.  
  
“Don’t you _dare_ say that about Porthos,” he snarled.

“Say what? That he is most likely guilty? That boy ran off for a reason.”  
  
“Porthos is a good man!” He was shouting. D’Artagnan had a hand on his arm, but he brushed it off, striding forward until he was looming over the slighter blonde. “ _I will not let this ruin him_.”

“He is your friend, and he may be a good one,” Ninon said. “That does not mean he is innocent.”

“It should not make him guilty!”

“And yet,” Ninon replied calmly. “I have found too many women battered and bruised at the hands of so-called ‘good men’. Men who give to charity and who are kind to their friends, who go home and beat their wives and children.”

“Porthos wouldn’t.” They both turned. D’Artagnan was standing there, fists clenched at his sides. He flushed a little under their gaze, but he said again, “He wouldn’t.”

D’Artagnan’s interruption had taken all the momentum out of their argument. But Ninon recovered her composure enough to shoot back, “And if he did?”  
  
“Find Alex,” Athos sighed. His anger had subsided as quickly as it had come on, leaving him trembling. “Talk to him yourself, if you want, before you bring him in. Please,” he added reluctantly.

Ninon pursed her lips. “Even if I don’t think Porthos is innocent, Alex shouldn’t have to spend tonight on the streets. That’s why I’m helping you, and don’t expect that I’ll be able – or willing – to make this go away.”

\----------------------------------------

“I’m gonna text Aramis,” d’Artagnan announced. Rather than wait aimlessly for news from Ninon, the pair had gone instead to _The Wren_ , a dark little pub in the university district. D’Artagnan had downed three beers in quick succession, and now looked a little like he’d misplaced his center of gravity.  
  
Putting one hand to on the younger man’s arm to forestall him, Athos eyed the murky beverage that claimed to be ale before shoving his glass to one side. Student bars, he thought disgustedly, and winced as d’Artagnan whacked an elbow against the bar counter as he grabbed for Athos’ discarded beer with his free hand.  
  
“Lessee, Aramis, Aramis…aha!” He held his phone aloft. The case was smeared in mysterious reddish-brown goop from the counter, and it looked not unlike a particularly grisly hunting trophy. “Aramis!” He peered at the screen, blinked, then flipped the phone upside down. The screen reoriented so that it was back to being right side up, and d’Artagnan frowned.

Athos tugged the device away, and wiped it down on a paper napkin before tucking it into his pocket. D’Artagnan turned the frown in his direction, and Athos helpfully reinserted his forgotten drink under the boy’s nose. Placated, d’Artagnan sipped at it, humming quietly along with the twangy country music playing in the background.

Athos _hated_ country music.  
  
But d’Artagnan had a point. They should keep Aramis updated, even if Athos was leery of offering him false hope.

[constances detective friend is out looking for alex] he typed. He thought for a minute then added, [how is he?]

His phone buzzed before he could put it away. [holding up. where are you?]

[wren in u district with DA]

[you have neither taste nor dignity] Then, immediately after: [come by when ur done? apartment is out of beer. also rum]

[how much have you had?]

[not as much as you]

Slightly stung, Athos slid his own phone back into his jeans and eyed d’Artagnan wobbling on his stool. Aramis could wait; it was more than past time to get him home. The younger man was taller but slighter, and it wasn’t difficult for Athos to take most of his weight as they staggered out of the bar in the direction of Constance’s house. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he couldn’t free a hand without dropping d’Artagnan, slumped heavily against Athos’ shoulder.

Constance was less than pleased to have her inebriated housemate dumped on her without explanation, but Athos twitched his shoulders in an apologetic shrug and left her forcing water down d’Artagnan’s throat before he could pass out in their living room.

The notifications on his phone were all from Aramis, who had sent a succession of texts.

[sorry that was uncalled for]

[seriously, im sorry i was a jerk]

[…athos?]

[its fine. had to take DA home first] Athos tapped out. Catching sight of a liquor store, he added: [stopping at the store for beer]

He bought two six-packs, and, feeling just the tiniest bit spiteful, bypassed Aramis’ preferred brand of rum in favor of a more expensive bottle of brandy. His taste was _excellent_ , thank you very much.  
  
Aramis welcomed him at the door looking even more anxious than he had the last time Athos had come over. “I’m a horrible human being,” he offered tentatively. “Forgive me?”

Athos thrust the beer cans at him. “Do you really need to ask?” Aramis grinned and latched on to his arm, squeezing gently before stepping back to unlock the apartment.

It was a mess. Empty cans and bottles littered the floor, and a half-eaten tub of ice cream was slowly melting away on the coffee table. Porthos was curled up on the sofa, taking up much less space asleep than he ever did awake.

“He didn’t sleep last night,” Aramis admitted. “Neither did I, come to it, and I’m about thirty seconds away from passing out where I stand. I was hoping you might stay for a little while, in case he wakes up?”  
  
Athos nodded and picked his way across the strewn clutter to sit against the couch. ‘Sleep,’ he mouthed at Aramis, who lifted a hand in weary acknowledgement before disappearing into his bedroom. Shifting around to reach his pocket, Athos retrieved his phone. He didn’t want to miss Ninon’s call, and in the meantime he could work on the instrumentation for one of their newer pieces. The idea that they might still be playing at Bumbershoot after all this felt faintly ridiculous, but he had nothing better to do.

He was stuck on a particularly tricky chord progression when a voice mumbled, “At that tempo, the kid might actually kill you if you try to make him play that change.”

“Porthos,” he said, and stopped. Asking how he was doing seemed inane; reassuring him that everything would work out fine would be worse.

A sigh gusted across the back of his head, ruffling his hair. “Go on, then. Ask.”  
  
“I don’t think you did it.”  
  
“Really? Because you’re coming across kinda tense for a man who believes I didn’t do it.”

Athos huffed. “Has it not occurred to you that I may have other reasons for being….‘tense’?”

“I know the difference.”  
  
“If you say so.” He deliberately dropped his gaze back down to the notation he’d been fiddling with, and corrected the troublesome chord progression. Porthos broke first.  
  
“ _Dammit_ , Athos, if you’re not pissed off then why’re you sitting there with your shoulders round your ears, not even bothering to look at me?” His voice broke.

Staring at his phone, Athos felt an irrational spike of anger. He did not doubt Porthos’ innocence. But how much more could they have done, if they’d known from that first night at practice what was wrong? Porthos asked for their trust, but he had not given it in return. The realization hurt more than Aramis’ casual barb at his drinking.

“You could have said something,” he finally muttered. “When you first found out, before practice that night? We would have helped you then. We wouldn’t have let it get this far.”  
  
“I didn’t _know_. My advisor just said we needed to have an emergency meeting at the shelter the next morning. I thought we were losing funding, were gonna have to cut staff. I didn’t –” He choked on a rasping sob. Athos felt his frustration crumble away, and he twisted to clasp one of Porthos’ shaking hands tightly between his own.  
  
“Porthos. _Porthos_ ,” he repeated, insisting, until bleak brown eyes met his own.“We’re going to fix this. We’ve called in one of Constance’s friends, she’s a detective and she’ll find Alex, they’ll be able to clear your name.” Porthos didn’t seem particularly convinced, and Athos released his hands to grab the sides of his head, tilting his face until they were looking each other in the eye. “I was angry because I thought you didn’t trust us but you do, don’t you? So trust us now: _we will fix this_.”

The door to the bedroom opened; Aramis padded up from behind him and dropped onto the couch to lean into their friend. His eyes were bleary with sleep, but he moved with purpose as he tipped his head onto Porthos’ shoulders, keeping his broken arm in front of his own torso so it wouldn’t get trapped between them. “We won’t let you down,” he added, and held out his free hand to Athos, who promptly found himself tugged up to sit on Porthos’ other side. He felt, rather than heard, the bigger man’s breathing even out as he calmed.

Silently, Athos placed his phone onto the table where they could all see it. Ninon would call any minute, and then he would be able to keep his promise. They would fix this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We may be entering soap-opera territory here (life imitating art, I'm afraid), but a huge and heartfelt thank you to every single person who's left a comment, kudos, and/or bookmark, and to the anonymous subscribers. You guys have made my whole week a delight and I can only apologize for not having written more, and for the rather ridiculous cheesiness in this chapter. Thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not thrilled with the pacing of this chapter, but I figure I'll bash my head against the brick wall of editing once I've actually finished writing the whole thing. I am starting to think I need a beta, though, so if anyone is interested or has an idea of where I can start looking, let me know! 
> 
> Also, a special thanks to Meg for catching Aramis' mysterious disappearing injury - I've gone back and corrected that in a couple of places.

The sofa in Aramis and Porthos’ apartment was a worn-down blue corduroy, bought off the apartment’s previous owners because it was too ratty looking for their new home. All appearances aside, it was a very nice couch; Athos had spent more than one night drunk and wrapped in spare flannel sheets upon its surprisingly plush cushions. Today, though, he was having a hard time getting comfortable. Porthos was sitting like a statue between them, but he could hear the squeak of springs as Aramis shifted his weight again, settling and resettling like a fidgeting child.

When the cell buzzed, all three of them jumped. Athos was fastest to snatch it off the table, and he slammed it to his ear. “Did you find him?”  
  
“Put it on speaker,” Aramis demanded, all restlessness forgotten.   
  
“ _Yes, but he won’t speak to me.”_

“Ninon, a moment.” He poked at his touchscreen for a minute, then put the mobile back on the table. “Go ahead.”

“ _I found him, but I mentioned I was a cop and he totally shut down. He doesn’t want me to take him back to the shelter. In fact, he doesn’t seem to want anything to do with me.”  
_

Porthos’ mouth twitched wryly under his beard. “Ah. That’d be ‘cause he thinks you’re gonna arrest him.”   
  
“ _Athos?_ ”

Busted. “No, my friends are here too.”

“ _One of those friends wouldn’t happen to be Porthos, would it?_ ”   
  
“That’s me,” Porthos rumbled. “Look, I’m not askin’ any questions. I know it’s a breach of confidentiality for you to talk to me about anything he said or did. But I’m allowed to talk to you, and I’m telling you that the reason Alex was twitchy around you is that he thinks he’s going to get in trouble. He had a history of pickpocketing, before we got to him, and we kept him out of juvie but he’s always worried that someone’ll catch him out, lock him up, you know?”

“ _I see_.” Ninon breathed out carefully, not quite a sigh. “ _That does make it difficult_.” _  
_

“Just…go easy on him, yeah?”

“ _I don’t know if that’ll do any good. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but – perhaps you could speak to him? Tell him he’s not in trouble._ ” There was a rustling noise as the phone changed hands.   
  
“ _Porthos?_ ”   
  
Porthos’ face went soft, the lines around his eyes and mouth easing instantly. “Hey, kiddo.”

 _“What’s going on? Why do they want me to come back to the shelter?_ ” 

“You’re not in trouble, Alex, I am. They think I hurt you, maybe some of the other kids too, and they want to make sure that you’re all safe.” The squawk of outrage from the other end was clearly audible, and Athos saw Aramis stifle a laugh. “Now, I’m not gonna say more than that, but I wanted to tell you the truth. That detective there is a cop, but she’s a good one and she’s just there to help you get back to the shelter as soon as possible. Okay?” 

“… _Yeah, I guess. ‘S fucked up though._ ” It was Porthos’ turn to bite down on a grin.

“Thanks, kiddo. That means a lot.” There was another moment of muffled discussion, then Ninon reclaimed the phone.

“We’re heading back now. You might want to get ready, they’ll probably call you in when they’re done talking to him.” Porthos grunted in assent and began to wiggle out from the pile of assorted limbs on the couch. Aramis stood too, lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug atAthos’ questioning glance, and followed his roommate further into the apartment.

“Ninon? It’s me.”   
  
She was silent for the space of two heartbeats. “ _Look, Alex is waiting in the car so I’m going to be brief, but for what it’s worth, I believe you._ ”  
  
Athos resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands with relief. If they had managed to convince Ninon…. “What made you change your mind?”   
  
“ _Well, you heard his reaction to the charges. And…as soon as he heard Porthos, it was like all the anger and the fear just vanished. He trusts your friend to take on a cop for him. That’s saying something, and it’s not ‘abuse’.”_  
  
“Porthos would do a lot for the people he cares about.” Ninon laughed quietly.

“ _He’s lucky to have found people who will do the same for him_. _I’d better get going. Take care, Athos._ ”

“You too. And Ninon – thanks.”

“ _Thank me by letting me take you out to dinner. You like Italian?”_

Athos recalled with visceral clarity the exact tomato red of d’Artagnan’s face after Constance complimented his playing. If the heat in his own cheeks was anything to go by, he was giving their young friend a run for his money. Correctly interpreting his stunned silence, Ninon chuckled. “ _Some other time, perhaps. I know you’ll be busy preparing for Bumbershoot, but Constance and I will be there, and I’ll expect your answer after the show.”_ And she hung up.

Very slowly, Athos set his phone on the table.   
  
Well.

\----------------------------------------

 His friends returned a few minutes later, looking marginally less like they’d spent the past thirty-six hours stewing in beer and sweat. Porthos was every inch the grad student in a dark green button-down, collar slightly crumpled where he hadn’t quite managed to iron it flat. As for Aramis, either he had misplaced his brush, or he was doing his best Einstein impersonation, frizzy hair curling in every possible direction over a grey cardigan. Glancing at his watch, Athos heaved himself to his feet with a quiet groan, knees popping. “I’ll drive.”

Porthos shook his head. “I’m sober.”

“So am I,” Aramis grumbled. “But apparently it’s not _safe_ to drive with one working arm.” He shot a mock-sulking glance at Porthos. “D’Artagnan didn’t seem to mind, the other day.”

“It’s a scientific fact that d’Artagnan doesn’t have a fully developed brain. The kid’s twenty-two, what makes you think he knows better?” Porthos snagged a set of keys from somewhere in the nebulous depths of his backpack. “And besides, nobody drives my car but me. You lunatics wouldn’t know what to do with her.”

“Fine,” Aramis sighed. “No, wait!” He paused in the middle of awkwardly tugging his shoes on one-handed to run, laces flapping, to retrieve something from Porthos’ room. “Just in case.” When he saw what it was, Porthos let out a startled bark of laughter.   
  
It was a black silk bandanna. 

Not just any black silk bandanna, of course, but the one their drummer wore during every show. Aramis always said it was lucky, because they’d never had a bad gig while it was tied securely around Porthos’ forehead. Porthos inevitably responded that all he wanted was something to keep the sweat out of his eyes and besides, they’d never had a bad gig, _period_ , but he accepted it now when Aramis offered, tucking the folded fabric into his pocket like a handkerchief.

“Gents, let’s roll.”

\----------------------------------------

 Porthos parked his ancient Camry in a visitor’s stall, and twisted in his seat so he could eye both of his bandmates at the same time. “You know how much it means to me that you’re here, but they’re not gonna let you come inside.”   
  
Athos tipped his head in a nod. He’d had some idea. Aramis was obviously trying hard to be blasé about the whole thing. “Of course. We’ll go find a Starbucks – or better yet, some cute little independent café, we all know how much Athos loves those.” The attempt was weak enough that Athos didn’t bother to humor him with a scowl.

“Call us when you’re done. Either way. We’ll be here.”

Porthos shot them a grateful smile, but his dark eyes were worried as he got out of the car and pushed through the entrance to the shelter.

They watched the door swing back and forth on its hinges for a heartbeat. Then Aramis punched the dash. “Fuck!”   
  
“If you break your other hand,” Athos said, “Porthos will never find your body, but he will definitely cry at your funeral. I won’t. Now come on, you promised me coffee.”

Aramis studied him in the rearview. “Do you actually _want_ coffee? Because I’m pretty sure if I drink anything now, I’ll throw up.” He paused. “I might throw up anyways.” 

“Aim out the window,” Athos suggested. “And no, not particularly.” But Aramis had seemed like he might welcome the distraction of tormenting Athos with revoltingly overpriced espresso, and he would suffer through a five dollar cup of milk and sugar if it kept Aramis from punching anything else. He was already blowing on his knuckles and wincing, no doubt trying to alleviate the encroaching soreness. Athos twitched his own fingers, offering assistance, and Aramis half-smiled in silent gratitude as he submitted his hand for inspection. A quick check revealed no significant damage, but there would undoubtedly be bruising. Athos rubbed his friend’s knuckles, keeping a soothing pressure on the swelling joints.

Aramis had long, elegant fingers perfect for guitar, but he lacked the protective heavy calluses that Porthos and Athos carried on their palms and knuckles. Porthos, he knew, had boxed all through undergrad and still made time to go to the gym on weekends. His own battered digits were the casualties of two and a half years of manual labor, when he was trying to get his feet under him in Seattle. He couldn’t bear to touch his violin, not even to busk on the streets, but it was easy to get lost in the soothing repetitive work of construction, building things and breaking them down. But Aramis – in the immortal words of The Kinks – was a lover, not a fighter. He didn’t brawl unless he had to, and it showed.

“Tell me, doctor, will I live?” Aramis’ eyes danced with a hint of mirth, but there was an undercurrent of nervousness to his demeanor that had nothing to do with Athos’ threat. Athos dropped his hand to stretch across the back seat, gesturing with exaggerated magnanimity just to see Aramis’ eyes brighten a degree more.

“I’ll spare you for now,” he said lightly, and they began their long and uneasy wait.

\----------------------------------------

It took nearly an hour for Porthos to emerge, and as soon as the door had opened Athos felt his stomach drop. Porthos’ bronze skin was ashen, sickly. His eyes were rimmed with red.   
  
“Oh, no,” Aramis whispered.   
  
Seeing them waiting in the car, Porthos’ face crumpled, and he spun on his heel to lean his forehead against the brick exterior of the shelter. His shoulders heaved and shuddered as he fought to regain control. Broken arm not slowing him down in the slightest, Aramis was out of the car and steadying his friend in an instant, Athos only a second or two behind.   
  
“Karen lied.” The words seemed to be torn from Porthos’ throat, rough with unshed tears. “I was right, you remember? I said I thought we might be needing to let people go, ‘cause we didn’t have enough funding, and that was why my advisor had called me in. And we don’t, and they are – but not me. ‘M cheaper than a regular staff member, even if I work the same hours. Karen thought she was gonna lose her job ‘cause of me and she just –” He shuddered again. “I _liked_ her,” he said plaintively, sounding lost. “She showed me the ropes when I was just starting out. I didn’t even know it was her who’d said anything in the first place. But that lady detective was there with Alex, and she just pushed and pushed until – she said I could press charges, if I wanted. Slander.”

“What _do_ you want?” Aramis asked gently.

“Home,” Porthos said, spine curving forward as he pressed his head against the wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright. “I want to go home.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was laid low by midterms for a while, but I have emerged (relatively) unscathed! Thanks as always for reading and reviewing/leaving kudos, you guys are great. <3
> 
> As we move back into the music bits of the story, I wanted to give people an idea of where The Inseparables came from, musically - [Drakskip](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbA0dhHFLHY) performed at my study abroad university, and I was really impressed (especially by their percussionist, who not only played that seriously cool drumkit but BEATBOXED during the show I saw augh it was awesome). The boys wouldn't sound quite like this, but this is where the idea started. 
> 
> Also, come say hi on [Tumblr](http://jedi-seagull.tumblr.com/)!

The drive back was interminable, an oppressive quiet weighing on the minutes until they seemed to stretch forever. Athos had taken the keys, Aramis following Porthos into the back seat to press reassuringly against him, shoulder to thigh. What he needed – what they all needed – was rest. But immediate crisis averted, Athos’ treacherous mind was racing ahead. It was now the 16th of August. They were scheduled to play on Bumbershoot’s Pavilion Stage on the 30th. This gave them exactly two weeks.

Somehow, in those fourteen days they needed to inventory their merchandise, burn more copies of their album, work through their blocking, prep all their instruments and gear, and – as if that wouldn’t be difficult enough – find the time to teach d’Artagnan the other half of their set.

He braked a little harder than was necessary, pulling into an open spot in front of the apartment, and saw his friends jolt, shaken out of their silent contemplation. He couldn’t make this call on his own. He might have been nominally in charge, but The Inseparables had always been the three of them, together. Hearing Aramis and Porthos busking in Pike Place five years ago had made Athos long for the violin he hadn’t touched since New York. He’d known then, even before they came into view, that they were the only people he’d ever want to play with.

“Athos?” Aramis peered at him in the rearview mirror. “You okay?” He realized he’d been sitting there, still wearing his seatbelt, for the last several seconds.  
  
“We need to talk. About Bumbershoot, and whether or not it’s a realistic goal for us this year.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Porthos said kindly, and Athos startled. “The last few days have been hell, yeah. But it would actually kill you if we canceled now, I know it would, you’ve been so happy since we got accepted.”

“I merely wanted,” he said carefully. “To make sure we all were – able to commit to –”

Porthos’ eyes flashed, and he drew himself up. “Do you think we can’t handle it?”

Athos looked away, feeling rather sheepish.  
  
“I oughta thump you,” Porthos growled. “But one broken arm’s enough for this band. You start treating us like we’ll shatter under pressure again, though, and we’ll see if a lump on your skull won’t set you straight.”  
  
“….Sorry,” Athos muttered.  
  
Porthos grunted. “You should be. Most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

Aramis, who had been watching the exchange with faint amusement, now stretched and yawned ostentatiously. “Well, I don’t know about you two, but anything that needs to be done can wait until tomorrow as far as I’m concerned. Netflix and pizza is about all I’m interested in right now.”  
  
“I want meat lover’s,” Porthos said immediately, throwing open the car door. He waited for Athos to exit before reeling him in with an affectionate arm around his shoulders. “Come on, you. My treat.” Athos tolerated being dragged a few steps before he slipped free, dangling Porthos’ keys like bait. Porthos stopped dead in his tracks.  
  
“Give me back my keys,” he said pleasantly. “And nobody needs to get hurt.”

“Oooh,” Aramis said.

“Only if you drop me off at Tréville’s first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, fine. _Keys_.”

“And I want olives.” He was being petty, but Porthos was fighting back a grin and Aramis wasn’t even trying to pretend he wasn’t laughing. A little childishness could be excused.

“You’re awful. That’s my baby that you’re holding hostage.”  
  
“Olives or your baby’s getting parked at Tréville’s tonight.”  
  
Porthos rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why I like you. Fine. Give ‘em here.” Athos tossed the keys and was promptly put in a retaliatory headlock. Yelping, he stumbled forward, trying to keep up with Porthos’ bigger strides. “Olives,” Porthos scoffed. “Honestly.”

“Let me go or I’ll kick you so hard you won’t walk for a week,” Athos threatened. Porthos released him with a tolerant smirk.  
  
“You could try.” He strutted into the apartment, shoulders thrown back like a prizefighter. Aramis drew back to elbow Athos meaningfully.  
  
“Coddle him too obviously and he really will smack you one,” Aramis whispered conspiratorially.

Athos raised an eyebrow, holding the door open. “Why, Aramis,” he drawled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

\----------------------------------------

They wound up on the couch, pizza in hand ( _with_ olives, thank you very much),squabbling over what to watch. Porthos wanted action, Aramis was leaning towards historical drama, and Athos said that if he wanted to watch middle-aged men lecture and/or punch things, he could have just gone to see Tréville. It felt like days had passed since that morning, when the three of them had sat here while their world was crumbling.

Ultimately, they won him over with _Scaramouche_. Sweeping romance for Aramis, revolution for Porthos, and, fine, Athos himself had a not-very-secret weakness for sword fights. “An elegant weapon for a more civilized age,” Aramis intoned, flicking his breadstick into a guard position and putting on his best British accent. His squawk of outrage ruined the impersonation. “Hey!”

Athos had leaned across Porthos and, without looking away from the screen, bitten off half of the make-shift lightsaber.

“Shh,” Porthos hissed. “It’s starting.”

“There is a pause button,” Athos pointed out.  
  
“Yeah – all the way by the TV.” He sighed in pleasure, wiggling a little deeper into the cushions, and kicked his feet onto the coffee table. “Me, I’m not getting up for anything short of the apocalypse.”

\----------------------------------------

He really did need to speak with Tréville, Athos reminded himself the next morning. Somehow, stumbling half-awake around the living room trying to turn off his damn alarm, that seemed less like a necessity and more like a particularly cruel form of self-inflicted torture.

Yesterday, Athos had put his phone with its alarm all the way across the room on purpose, knowing that no matter how tired he was, peeling himself off the sofa would be preferable to suffering through one slurred line of _Red Solo Cup_. Once they’d finished _Scaramouche_ , Aramis had suggested they do a Sabatini marathon, and they’d made it through _The Sea-Hawk_ and at least half of _Captain Blood_ before Porthos had carted his drowsing roommate off to bed. That had been 3 AM.

He found his phone where it had been dropped into a potted cactus and fished it out gingerly.

Yesterday-Athos was kind of an asshole.

Porthos, meanwhile, was happily clattering around in the kitchen, because Porthos was a lunatic who woke up before noon by choice. Whatever he was doing smelled fantastic, though. Athos vengefully swiped his alarm off, silencing Toby Keith’s drunken crooning, and poked his head around the corner. Porthos may have been a lunatic, but he was the best sort, because he was making _pancakes_.

Porthos caught him staring and grinned embarrassedly. “Felt like we should be celebrating, you know.”

“Bless you,” Athos said fervently, and didn’t even bother with a plate before he was picking up the first flapjack and cramming it into his mouth. Porthos was laughing at him, but who cared; he was in sweet carbohydrate heaven. Another few pancakes and a strong cup of coffee and he might even feel human again.

He’d polished off two more of Porthos’ masterpieces and was most of the way through his first cup of dark roast when Aramis shuffled in, pink cast protruding from the split in his bathrobe like the hero of an old samurai film. “Coffee,” he groaned. “Gah.” He buried his nose in the mug Porthos handed him and took several long swallows. When he finally emerged, he blinked at them both blearily. “You heading out soon?”

Porthos nodded. “We should, yeah.” Taking his cue, Athos stood to go gather his wallet, keys, and shoes.

“Drive carefully,” Aramis called over his shoulder, pouring himself another cup.

“Yes, mom.”  
  
It wasn’t very long to Tréville’s from the apartment, and in less than fifteen minutes Constance was frowning at Athos as he pushed through the door to the shop. “You,” she pronounced, “Are in _so much trouble_. Did you think Ninon wouldn’t tell me exactly what was going on? No, don’t argue. If you’d told me from the start, don’t you think I could have gotten in touch with her sooner? _Men_.” She shot him a dirty look. “And I’m assuming the only reason you’re here now is because it all worked out okay, but of course I didn’t need to know that, either.”  
  
“I apologize,” he said, carefully polite.   
  
She crossed her arms over her chest, challenging. “What was that?”

“ _Constance_.”  
  
Constance blew auburn hair out of her eyes, still frowning unhappily. “I’ll get over it, but come on, Athos. I was going to find out eventually. You’ve got to stop doing everything yourself.”  
  
“I know,” he admitted. “Working on it.”

“That’ll have to do for now. Are you looking for Tréville? He’s in his office, I think – his car was here when I got in, but I haven’t seen him yet this morning.”  
  
“I’ll go check, thanks.” He turned at the bottom of the stairs to look back at her. “And Constance – I am sorry.”

Finally she smiled, though it only just barely crinkled the corners of her eyes. “I know. Go on, then, I’m sure you two’ve got lots to talk about.”

Tréville was frowning too, when he knocked and entered at the gruff, “Come in”. That was less unusual. Tréville was always frowning over something, sales figures or noisy children or the antics of The Inseparables themselves. But his perpetual irritation was soothing in a way, as familiar as the sound of his voice asking, resigned: “What now?”

“We need every hour of practice time you can give us,” Athos said. “And a spare key.”  
  
Tréville looked at him quizzically. “Something wrong with yours?”  
  
“No. But I don’t know that I’ll always be at practices.” He rattled off the growing list of things left to do before the show, the bits and pieces that little bands had to do themselves because they couldn’t afford help. Tréville was unimpressed.  
  
“Delegate, Athos.”  
  
 _Not you too_ , he wanted to say, but he controlled the urge. “I _am_. I’m going to ask Aramis to pick up d’Artagnan’s security badge tomorrow. Porthos has already volunteered to do gear prep because he wants to add a few pieces to his kit before the show – something about a rainstick? But I’m the only one not working eight-hour days, so I’ve said I’ll deal with merchandise. I’ve only got the one machine at home; Aramis and Porthos don’t have laptops with CD drives. Burning discs will take time.”

Gazing at nothing in particular, Tréville considered the problem. Several long moments passed before his eyes sharpened, refocusing on Athos. “I can do the CDs. Bring by the cases and cover slips and I’ll have them for you before the show.”

Athos tried not to gape, he really did. Judging by the thunderously embarrassed expression on Tréville’s face, he failed. “Stop looking at me like that, or I’ll take it back,” he warned. But he scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck and added, “I want you boys to do well. This is a big chance you have, and it’d be a shame for it to go to waste.”

Athos forced out halting thanks and stood to leave, but Tréville, looking slightly less flustered, said, “Oh, and you might want ask Constance to help you with inventory. She’s a genius at organizing.”  
  
Athos shifted his weight from foot to foot awkwardly. “She’s rather upset with me at the moment.”  
  
“Do I want to – no,” Tréville decided dryly. “Don’t tell me. I would suggest groveling. Very, very politely.” He looked up, blue eyes catching Athos’ own with sudden seriousness. “They’re going to need you at practice. You want to do something for this band? Be there.”  
  
Athos hoped that wasn't the warning it sounded like.


End file.
